


Come & Play

by Larsini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Pre-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:45:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larsini/pseuds/Larsini
Summary: Set after John & Mary's wedding. Sherlock returns to Baker Street, deep in thought, to find that someone left him a message.





	

  
  
_Who leaves a wedding early? So sad..._

Yes, who did indeed.

Sherlock closed the door with a little more force than strictly necessary, and for a moment he stood still. Stared straight ahead, eyes unseeing, the sight of the far too familiar, far too comforting, far too empty armchair blinding him, the sullen emptiness of the dark flat weighing heavy on his heart.

After a few seconds he blinked and shook his head. He would be alright. John was fine, safe and besides himself with happiness, and that was good enough for him. No use in giving in to some... pseudo melancholy, some artificial emulation of sentiment that he didn't actually need or want. He hadn't felt it before, and he certainly wouldn't start _now_. Not when it was finally over and he could return to... whatever it was John had dragged him out of in the first place.

He'd rather not know.

The detective slipped out of his coat and his scarf, made his way to his room, shrugged out of the swallow-tailed suit jacket. He hadn't minded it so far, had actually liked the air of classical elegance it radiated, the boutonniere pinned to his chest a widely visible badge of honor. It was the fragrant proof of how far he had ascended in life, to be valued by a man as valuable as John, to be his best man. His best friend. It had elevated him to a position he had never expected to hold, had never dared to aspire in the knowledge that he would undoubtedly fail, and yet... here he was.

To wear this suit, on this very special day, for this very special person, had been an honor.

But all of a sudden it felt like a strap jacket. He was a dressed up, dolled up circus monkey, trying to appeal to an audience that wasn't even his, and when he finally managed to struggle out of the jacket he tossed it on the bed without much regard and impatiently loosened his tie. He needed to get out of this. He needed... he needed to go. Needed to leave it all behind, the wedding, the numb aching feeling in his heart – that _hole_ , wherever it had come from – and distract himself.

There were still cases to solve. They were old and cold and dull, but right now it would have to do. Or maybe he could take to the streets, take a walk, hunt through the night like he used to... but no. He would constantly look over his shoulder. Wait at corners and make sure that John could keep up, but John wouldn't be there. John wouldn't try to keep up, never again, because John was now following a different path, and no matter how often and intently he had tried to lie and assure him, both of them, that it wasn't so, they knew that they weren't walking the same road anymore. Their lines had crossed, and now they would diverge again. Their chapter had come to its end.

Sherlock hated how lonely that made him feel.

He dropped down on the bed, untied his shoelaces. Opened his cuffs. Unbuttoned his vest. His mind was wandering, he couldn't help it, his focus was darting around, replaying every moment of the day he had left behind, a trembling shadow flitting through his memory in search of something to latch on to. His thoughts were a whirling mess. He didn't know what to do. For once in his life he didn't know what to do, how to react. How to spend his time. How to fill the void that definitely hadn't been there before. He didn't know what to _do_.

It was as annoying as it was painful, and he hated it even more than the loneliness.

And then it hit him. Sherlock froze, halfway out of the vest, with parted lips and unblinking eyes. For a few seconds he was paralyzed, and slowly his mind returned to the fragment of memory that had just brushed his attention, calming in the process. Narrowed. Closed in. He blinked when he realized what he had seen before, yet failed to notice.

A heartbeat later he had shot off the bed and out of the room, through the kitchen, into the parlor, coming to a sudden stop before his arm chair, his breathing so flat and shallow he could feel himself grow dizzy. He hesitated in disbelief, then bent down. Slowly picked up the red, gleaming, mutilated apple innocently waiting for him, as cautiously as if it would disappear once he got too close. Raised it and stared at it, unable to believe his eyes. It couldn't be.

 _Impossible_.

The blade of the pocket knife had been driven deep enough to have the tip resurface on the other side, wielded with enough force for him to find a dark, dried drop of blood smeared on the gleaming metal. Sherlock's knees were growing weak, but he ignored it, as well as his hammering pulse and the strange emptiness in his mind. He forced himself to turn the apple around, to read the irregular, gaping letters carved into the surface, breaking the red skin and revealing the pale fruit flesh underneath.

 

**COME + PLAY**

 

With a breathless sound that might have been a gasp he sank down into John's abandoned chair, still clutching the apple, and swallowed. His mouth was paper-dry, his sight unsteady and blurred, his fingers shaking. It couldn't be. It just... it _couldn't_ be.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't know what was worse – the knowledge that his nemesis was still out there, that he as well had somehow managed to solve their 'final problem'... or the intoxicating feeling of perverted relief.

Moriarty was _alive_.

And he wanted to play.  



End file.
